How glorious for you to be the victor with not a speck of damage to your homeland. Oh! Has there been a war victor since Rome in which the winning armies went home to such a pristine land?
She paused.
Liberation, she muttered, then fell silent.
87.
At that, the therapeutic session ended, early, for reasons I did not know. The church carillon was not yet done sounding the three-quarter hour when doctor and patient went their separate ways.
The next days proved difficult. Thoughts of the university, of my banishment, swept through my consciousness at what seemed to be regular, four-hour intervals. There was nothing to do but endure it, since, as I have said, such internal processes had a way of suffusing themselves throughout my body, leaving me with as little control over them as one has over glucose absorption, for example. My sole relief was the anticipation of Monday night’s session, the continuation of Michal’s story, its effect upon my dear patient.
I therefore arrived on Monday during Dr. Schussler’s evening break, which she normally observed between 5:00 and 6:30. Her custom was to return no later than 6:45 to receive her three late-night clients, the patient being the last of these.
I sat reading a professional journal for perhaps an hour (by flashlight, of course, for fear of revealing my presence to Dr. Schussler), when I was startled by a sharp rap on my door.
I had no idea who it might be. It surely was not Dr. Schussler, whose walk I would have recognized in an instant.
The rapping came again.
Be calm, I told myself. Whoever it is will go away.
Yet again a fist rapped at the door.
Quiet, I told myself.
Now came a pounding upon the thin center panel of the door—so forceful that I feared for its tender fruitwood.
I saw you come in, said a man’s voice between two bangs on the door.
Who saw me? Who was watching me?
I know you’re there, said the voice.
Who is it? I felt compelled to answer.
The manager, he said. I must speak to you.
I opened the door a crack to see a very short man with bulging eyes—but he was not the manager as I had known him!
Are you new? I asked him.
What do you mean? he replied.
I do not know you.
Of course you know me, he insisted. You negotiated your lease with me.
Now I believed I must have lost my mind, because I was certain that I had never before seen this odd-looking man, who, as I examined him further, became stranger yet, with his wild eyebrows and mouth twisted down on the left side. Surely I would have remembered such a creature. In his right hand he held a lit cigar. He took a long draft, then blew foul-smelling smoke into my face.
Let’s go inside, he said.
I felt there was nothing to do but comply.
Hey! he said upon taking a step into the office. Why are you sitting in the dark?
My eyes, I said, extemporizing. A medical problem. I must use low-level lighting else harm my eyes.
He hummed. I feared he would flash on the lights. But happily he remained standing in the opened doorway.
This won’t take long, he said.
Yes? I asked.
I need to inform you that we’re moving your office, he said.
What? I all but shouted.
Move you. Downstairs. Same footage, same orientation, just down a floor.
I thought my heart would stop. Move me? I thought. Away from my dear patient!
How is this possible? I argued. My lease term runs through August.
The man who may or may not have been the manager said, Look at your lease.
What should I see there? I asked him.
He reached into his back pocket, from which he retrieved a sheaf of folded paper. He opened it, held it toward the hall light, and pointed at a paragraph.
See here? he said. It says we have leased you Room 807 or comparable space.
I leaned over. I tilted the sheaf of paper to catch the light. My God! The words were actually there!
But are you sure this is the same as my lease? I asked him.
Look, fella, he said. This is the deal. The guys next door want to expand into your space, and I can do it by moving you downstairs. They’ve been here for ten years, you only since last summer, and I’m obligated to accommodate my long-term tenant if I can. And I can. Anyway, they’ve already got your room number.
What was he talking about? Who had what number?
See, your room here used to be 805, he said, stabbing his